


The Worst Last Night Of My Life

by sourtongue



Category: Welcome to Hell - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Death, Extremely brief Meph appearance, Murder-Suicide, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:43:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7995682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sourtongue/pseuds/sourtongue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've been working on this for probably four hours and I don't know how to feel about that but I'm kind of really happy with how it turned out. I don't think ever written a death scene and I tried to make it work as best as possible. I had the end figured out halfway through this thing and that was my motivator to finish this lmao.<br/>Have fun.</p><p>P.S - I did use his actual name because, well, Napoleon sounds like a much more serious name and this is a serious set of words so I kind of felt that using Sock for this wouldn't exactly make the cut.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Worst Last Night Of My Life

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for probably four hours and I don't know how to feel about that but I'm kind of really happy with how it turned out. I don't think ever written a death scene and I tried to make it work as best as possible. I had the end figured out halfway through this thing and that was my motivator to finish this lmao.  
> Have fun.
> 
> P.S - I did use his actual name because, well, Napoleon sounds like a much more serious name and this is a serious set of words so I kind of felt that using Sock for this wouldn't exactly make the cut.

"Well Old Friend, I never thought I'd find myself at your business end.."

The stainless steel of the Beloved kitchen knife glistens rather beautifully in the retreating lunar light; the handle is held tight in both hands to supply extra strength and driving force.

The Oak Tree that leans over the two mounds of covered earth and the single open hole will be the only witness tonight to the Sowachowski Murder-Suicide. It's branches creak and groan, swaying in the wind of a fresh spring night; dark clouds litter the sky and the lunar rock that's now hidden behind a rumbling cumulus tells Napoleon that not even the Moon wanted any longer to be part of such an act. Dry blood is caked under his nails and stains the bits of his scarf an even darker red than it's current color. He really lucked out by managing to keep everything else spotless.

"Any Last words? Eulogy? I suppose it doesn't really matter. It's not like anybody's listening or watching me right now."

His back is facing the three hour old not-quite-rectangular orifice in the ground, uneven in the dirt and probably too big for him but he'd rather have too much room to die than not enough. Digging all three graves had been more than enough labor to put the poor boy out of his misery but not quite.  
That's what the knife is for, anyway.

He looks down at the large blade that's positioned before him, target point just at the separation of his rib-cage. If he does this correctly, the blade will puncture his stomach and liver and of course, all the flesh and tissue that comes with it. He's killed enough to know how exactly to do it but even so, having to do it to himself is just a bit tricky not to mention nerve-wracking, but that doesn't remove the knot of sick excitement that's tied itself into his intestines.  
Killing is still killing, regardless if you're your own target.

Deep breath. In. Out. 

Saying he expects it to happen quickly is a lie because I mean, we're dealing with a teenage serial killer here and he knows approximately how long it takes for somebody to bleed to death. He's seen enough videos.  
Practiced on enough innocent civilians. 

"Okay. On the count of three.."

He inhales.  
"One.."  
Exhales.

At One, the Oak Tree that's been growing in the field behind his house for the past seven years he's lived in the neighborhood groans and it's leaves dance a waltz with the wind of the approaching storm. The thunder growls, vibrates the sky and in the distance, lightning strikes somewhere and lands in a clearing similar to this.

"Two.."

At Two, his father lays under the earth, striped set of cream-sicle orange sleepwear painted burgundy from the six leaky holes in his chest and neck; probably dry on the inside now. His mother lays in the hole beside his, her periwinkle nightgown with the frilled sleeves accidentally cut at the abdomen, single wound large and revealing of all the little bits and pieces that made her human. Torn intestines and all. He hopes they sleep well. 

Rain starts to fall onto his skin; cold, chilling.

"....."  
His hands are shaking from the buildup and anticipation. His heart, lively as it still beats, is furiously hammering in his chest. In his mind, he apologizes for killing the people who'd brought him into the world, never having expected he'd ever be the one to take them out of it. 

The kid has some nerve, huh. You go out of your way to bring a son into existence and he turns around and quite literally, back-stabs you in your sleep.  
Unbelievable, isn't it?

The stupid frantic beating continues and makes his chest ache underneath his clothes. His inhaling, exhaling process has become shaky with the bundle of nerves that's unraveled all over him and he takes one more breath.

"Three..!"

At Three, everything he'd ever done that had lead him up to this moment shows itself to him in a book of memories, the squirrel he'd killed and tried to gift to his childhood friend for her birthday party that he was uninvited to, the new school where he carried around a dead toad for a week in his backpack before his teachers found out and had the counselor call his parents, the time he accidentally murdered his parents in his sleep. The whole shabang.

Imagine a rubber-band, pulled to it's limit and held there for some amount of time. The buildup of that rubber-band would have made the snap back possibly greater, more intense, than if it were to have been released immediately; all the energy used in keeping that rubber-band stretched goes into the snap back.

That's just about how it goes when he drives the blade in. 

His eyes clench shut and all he can see is immediate white; not the black void or the membrane red you'd normally see when you closed your eyes. 

And the pain..  
The pain is unreal. That thin steel blade is buried up to the handle in his torso and he's positive he felt more than one thing burst with the blades forced entry. It makes his knees buckle and tears prick at the corner of his green eyes, and he can't even move to straighten out from his half bent over position. 

All he can do right now is open his eyes.  
And squinting, does just that and stares down at his injury as the blade handle protrudes out from his vest, the light tan material soaked with dark and warm crimson that's cooling the longer it's out of his body. The rain has picked up and it falls heavier the longer the clouds sit over the dramatic scene. His hands are still wrapped around the handle, his hands don't know how to work and won't listen to uncurl from it. His breathing has been shortened to pants, and when he tries the intake of a normal breath, pain shoots through him; sparking from the new wound and his pained sounds are drowned out when the thunder reverberates throughout the sleeping town. His breathing quickly returns to it's fast paced in-outs just to remain some fractional definition of Sane at this point.

"Agh..!"

The turquoise t-shirt and tanned vest are plastered to his skin by both the rain and his blood, greatly decreasing his warmth. This blade needs to come out. It's not supposed to stay in here, it's just acting like a cork in a wine bottle, a stopper in a drain; keeping in what, in his case, needs to be spilling out.

"Okayokayokay.. Just.."

With his grip practically glued to the handle at this point, he tries pulling outward by just an inch. Big mistake. Large error. He hisses in pain, teeth clenched tightly and he finds it within himself to let go for just a moment. With his hands free, they hover in the air in front of him, shaking tremendously. With the rain pouring down as heavily as it is, it weighs down his hat, soaks into his boots from the opening at his ankles and his socks feel uncomfortable and soggy. 

As if that's the worst of his problems.

His insides feel tight. Sharp. Broken. A punctured stomach means stomach acid leaking out into his body cavity and that's probably why he feels like he's disintegrating from the inside out; he's trying incredibly hard to even stay on his feet. He wonders what it would it look like if he was somehow transported inside his own body as a near microscopic version of himself, sitting on a rib and seeing the large, foreign triangular blade just sticking in him. It shouldn't be funny. And he shouldn't laugh but he does and the small misplaced chuckle immediately makes him wish he was already dead because the action makes everything shake and his eyes water in pain. 

"Ha.. Fu..ck.. This is the stupidest.. thing.. ever!"

You don't just take your time pushing a kitchen knife into your torso second by inching second; well, you do if you're really really into agonizing pain and he is but even this kid has his limits. The same way he drove it in, instantaneous and forceful; is the same way he needs to pull it out.  
Instantaneous. And forceful.

"Alright everybody.. Just like we rehearsed.."

Trying to make light of a dark, rainy situation. Whatever helps you sleep at night; though in this particular situation, there won't be any waking up.

"On the count of three again.."

He takes as big of a breath as he can without igniting the spark of pain any further as it's already lit and burning. Trembling, he grabs the knife handle whilst trying his best not to cause any movements to disturb the blade until he's ready. His heart is going the hardest and fastest he's ever felt it go. Lightning strikes far off after a thundering bang and he knows he really needs to work fast because he does not want to die in a square pool of muddy water. 

He breathes. InOutInOutInOut and.. 

"OneTwoThree!"

Yanks the blade out, feels it leave his body, slip out of his skin and punctured organs. There's a choking sound that falls from his mouth following his yell of pain and the force of removing the blade makes his body straighten up, then stumble and he falls back, boot sinking in the already muddying edges of his wet grave and he falls into it, back crashing into the wet dirt that's isn't soaked enough and the landing sends that painful fire rocketing through him. 

"FFFuck!! FuckFuck!.."

Immediately following the removal, he feels the warm fluid beginning to pour out; and the pain that's burning, tearing through him makes him start to curl up in agony. The knife had fallen just beside him in the dirt, the dark wet fluid coating the blade; the gritty dirt and soil caking onto it. Earth worms begin to emerge from the storm pounding down onto the ground.

His hand blindly takes it's time navigating it's way to the wound. He presses his palm lightly against the soaked fabric of his vest, fingers crawling along until he feels the warm wet. There's a hole in his vest, in the t-shirt; and he uses both of those as entry points for curious fingertips. He hasn't been laying there too long but his brain is in an overload from the shock his body is currently in that his eyes already stare out in the growing darkness of night, though when he locates and pokes an index fingertip at his open flesh; they shut immediately and he curls into himself tighter, searing hot pain drawing out a thin line of saliva from the corner of his mouth into the wet earth.

"H..Holy.. Motherfucking-"

He doesn't realize he's begun crying from the pain until the water running down his face is salty and it isn't cold like the rain. 

"T-This is.. Going to be.. the longest.. seven minutes ever.."

That gets his mind racing. More than it is right now, that is.  
Seven minutes. He has seven minutes left to live, recalling the average time it took for his previous victims to die of blood loss, it bordered between sixteen and thirteen minutes. Assuming it'll take him around fifteen, he'd already lost eight to simply pulling out the knife and falling into the dug out ditch. 

It must've been a sight. A boy in a red flapped hat with bright sunflower yellow goggles strapped to the top, laying in the fetal position at the bottom of his own personally made grave, very slowly dying in the middle of the night while a rainstorm quenches the town's thirst and drowns out his own agonizing cries.

"W-Why do people.. have so much blood...?!"

He's still curled up, with no real intention of changing positions before his last breath is drawn. The pain is numbing out, as is the rest of his body and he tries not to focus on the fact that he's beginning to feel like he's floating, or at least, not entirely where he is now. His heartbeat isn't pounding furiously any longer and is instead, struggling to maintain it's rhythm. 

"Come on.. It's like.. .. five m..more minutes?"  
The palm of his hand rests on the location of his injury, feeling the skin of his hand become soaked with blood on one side and rain on the other.  
Hot and cold. Thick and thin. 

He's getting tired. Really tired. The kind that you get when you're so exhausted, your eyes won't stay open no matter what you do; and every part of him feels like ice. Numbing cold. His eyes start to slip closed and he doesn't bother trying to fight it, instead telling himself he's just going to sleep. Going to sleep and not waking up.

He'd never really put much thought into what happened after you died.  
What existed? What didn't? He doesn't know but here's his chance.  
There's first time for everything. 

"....."

Thunder bangs overhead, still pouring the rain down and down. It's going to happen very soon. He can barely feel his own heart beating inside his chest and that thunder and that rain all sound and feel so very far and fading. He wants to move, to just see if he can, but his body doesn't work anymore. The connecting cables between brain and body are severed and everything is just about ready for shut down. 

One good last breath then. The largest one he'd taken since sustaining the injury and it hurts. The only thing he can still feel is the pain even if it too, has begun to fade off into the distance. His lungs fill with as much air as they can carry and then he lets it out, lets the breath fall from his lips as he starts drifting and he swears he can hear his heart in his ears as it slows to a stop. 

.  
.  
.  
.  
.

It's quiet.  
No rain. No thunder. No dirt and earth underneath him and he's flat on his back instead of the fetal position he could've sworn he took his last breath in. His clothes are bone dry but the area between the separation of his rib-cage feels sore and strange. What is...? 

He opens his eyes and an orange stare followed by wild fire hair with strange sideburns in a plum suit is staring down at him, smug grin on his face as sharp as the styling of the man's sideburns; and an arm extends down towards him, palm up.

"Welcome to Hell, would ya' like a hand?"


End file.
